Any Rags, Any Bones, Any Bottles, Today?
by Ash10
Summary: Sergeant Saunders finds himself alone and injured behind enemy lines, his only hope of making it to safety, a halfstarved horse. Please R & R and thanks!


Any Rags, Any Bones, Any Bottles, Today?

Sergeant Chip Saunders knew absolutely nothing about horses. He'd seen a few, of course. There was that one the ragman used to pull his cart up and down the alleys back home in Evanston, Illinois. The horse's name was Jasper and he was large and brown and friendly and old. Saunders' mother once told him Jasper was the same horse who pulled the same ragman's cart back when she was a little girl. That explained the animal's sway back and bony knees and the preponderance of white whiskers which stuck out from his chin like porcupine quills. But his liquid brown eyes always seemed to light up when one of the neighborhood kids patted the velvet nose or offered a carrot nicked from somebody's garden. Saunders had fond memories of that old, long dead, horse. Home, Jasper reminded him of home, of being a kid, of better times.

This horse, however, jolted the sergeant back to reality, his reality, and that was war, a cruel, untidy, ugly place and one in which Saunders was firmly rooted. At times like these he felt like he'd never lived anywhere but a foxhole; had never eaten anything that wasn't cold or hard or full of dirt, and had never felt any way but scared. Maybe Chip Saunders didn't know anything about horses, but he knew suffering all right…something he and this horse had in common.

Bald patches showed through the reddish brown coat and each rib was outlined in bold relief. Starvation was common in this war-torn land, for animals and people alike, and Saunders wondered why this particular horse had been spared the table, though for whatever reason, he was very grateful.

Sorry or not, half-starved or not, Saunders needed transportation and this horse was going to provide it, but first things first. For whatever reason, the horse had been tied to the bumper of an overturned vehicle, as if the owner planned on coming right back. Saunders glanced around. This town, like so many others he'd passed through, was devastated, and also completely empty, now. Who knew how long the horse had been tied here, patiently waiting for someone to untie him and lead him away.

The knot in the rope was impossible to undo, so Saunders pulled out a pocket knife and cut through the rough hemp. He led the horse to what was left of the town's focal point – its fountain. Though the rest of the town had been nearly obliterated by German artillery, the fountain remained relatively unscathed.

At first the horse didn't appear to realize that all the water he could ever want was there for the asking. He stood, head hanging down, eyes half closed. Saunders pulled out a handkerchief and dipped it into the fountain. He touched the wet fabric to the horse's mouth. There was no reaction.

"This isn't good," he murmured. Dipping the kerchief again into the water, he pressed it firmly against the animal's mouth, still no response. Exasperated and becoming desperate, Saunders again wet the kerchief, but this time he pushed it between the horse's lips and squeezed some of the water, he hoped, into the mouth. The teeth remained firmly clenched and water dribbled down Saunders' wrist, thoroughly wetting his shirt cuff and lower sleeve.

Saunders sat down on the edge of the fountain, shaking his head. "I don't believe it," he said. "You really _can_ lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Who'da thought?"

But the sound of slurping caused Saunders to turn around. "Well, it's about time!" The horse's muzzle was buried in the water and he was drinking, literally, like there was no tomorrow.

"Hey, that's enough! Too much too soon'll make you sick. I've seen that in men. Horses can't be that different."

The horse didn't take kindly to being pulled away from the water and the sergeant was surprised at how strong such a weak-looking animal still was. To him, that was a promising sign.

The horse now seemed interested in a small patch of grass growing at the base of the fountain and occupied himself with making short work of the tiny bit of available food. Saunders dropped the rope and allowed it to hang down. Pulling out his canteen, he unscrewed the top and filled the empty container from the fountain. He also took a moment to scrub the sweat, dirt and blood from his face with the kerchief, after washing the horse slobber off to the best of his ability.

The horse finished the grass and moved off a few yards to another small green area, dropping its head to graze. "Don't move too far, Horse," Saunders said, knowing that if the horse did decide to take off, he would be unable to do a damned thing about it.

Less than an hour before he discovered the abandoned horse, Sergeant Saunders and his squad and been engaged in a running battle with a bunch of krauts. Saunders had not been wounded, but in an act eerily reminiscent of Private William G. Kirby, Saunders had stepped into some sort of hole. He heard a loud pop and felt something in his knee, tear. By the time he made it to his feet, the sounds of battle had grown distant. For all he knew, King Company had chased those krauts all the way to the Belgian border. He hoped that was the outcome, but he felt some concern. No one had come looking for him, yet. They might still return, but he couldn't wait, not here, not if he could help it. He had to press north, to the Allied lines. And the more time that passed, the more his knee swelled and hurt. Already it was so swollen, he could hardly bend it at all and even making the attempt had him gritting his teeth and swearing at the pain, at that and at the situation in which he found himself.

Hobbling over to the horse, Saunders picked up the dangling rope and led the animal back to the fountain. Again, the horse dropped his nose to the water and drank, this time stopping of its own accord.

Holding the rope in one hand, the sergeant sat on the fountain's ledge and cautiously swung his legs around. Nauseating pain in the injured knee had him pause to catch a breath before attempting to stand upright. As if sensing the man's plight, the horse stood perfectly still and allowed Saunders to pull himself to a standing position using its matted mane for a handhold.

With a hand under his bad knee, Saunders levered that leg up over the horse's back. The pain nearly paralyzed him and for a moment the bleak countryside around him faded behind a gray curtain. The sergeant took one deep breath and then another and the gray mist finally lifted and his vision cleared. If he had this much trouble getting _on_ the horse, he shivered to think what it would be like getting _off_. But then he figured on reaching his own lines by that time and there would be help. He was mistaken on both counts.

The countryside, like the town he'd just left, lay in smoking ruins. Although he heard no sounds of war, no gunfire, no artillery, no voices, neither did he hear any of the normal sounds of nature – no birds, no insects, even the wind laid still and calm. To the American sergeant, it felt like he and the horse he rode were the only living things left in the world. Saunders pulled up his collar. He suddenly felt cold, the clammy cold of fear, fear of the unknown.

The horse plodded on, due north, with no guidance from the man on his back. By the time night fell, the sergeant had given up finding his own lines. He'd even given up _thinking_ about finding them. His thoughts were consumed by pain. He lay, draped over the horse's neck, and each of the animal's heavy steps jarred the injured leg to an almost unbearable degree.

It took some moments for Saunders to realize the horse had stopped and several more before he forced his aching body upright to take a look around. They were in a small clearing, no, not a clearing, but the front yard of a farmhouse. Black silhouettes of a house and barn materialized out of the gloom. There were no lights, no signs of life.

Saunders swung his good leg over the horse's back and slid to the ground, all the way to the ground as even his good leg had cramped up to such a degree from the unaccustomed mode of travel that it buckled, refusing to hold his weight. He fell flat on his back with a loud 'thunk.' He muffled a cry of pain against his sleeve, but couldn't stop the tears which eked from beneath closed eyelids.

When the pain subsided enough for him to think, he lay where he was, listening. Hearing nothing brought him both relief and disappointment. At least there were no krauts, but then neither was there anyone to offer help. Putting off the inevitability of having to somehow get to his feet was tempting, but laying out in the open next to a target as big as a horse, even if it was the dark of night, was probably not a good idea.

Saunders rolled over onto his belly and waited a minute to let the pain pass before getting up onto his good knee. For whatever reason, the horse remained still as a statue and allowed the sergeant to drag himself up against its skinny frame. Saunders rested his hot face against the horse's neck. "Good boy," he said, patting the animal gently. "Good boy. Now let's see if me and you can make it to that barn over there. See it?" Saunders pointed and sure enough, the horse's ears pricked up as if he understood every word. With Saunders holding on, the horse moved toward the shelter. "That's it. Keep going, boy."

Luckily, the barn door was open and the two refugees made their halting way inside. The scent of hay was sweet and inviting. It wouldn't be the first time the sergeant had made his bed in a barn. One thing he'd learned in this man's army was to take advantage of whatever comfort turned up, and barns, for the most part, had the comfort business all over cold, wet foxholes. The mooing of cows and the bleating of sheep were the lucky foot soldier's lullaby

Despite the pain in his knee, Saunders fell into exhausted, dreamless sleep. When daylight woke him, he was surprised to find the horse standing directly over him, several pieces of hay dangling from its lips. How the horse had come to stand there, without stepping on him while he slept, was a mystery to Saunders. But mystery aside, the sergeant had to make a decision – lay low in the barn and wait until nightfall to move on, or move out now and make better time in the light of day. Yesterday, when he hoped to catch up with the squad, or at least make his own lines, he'd chanced traveling by day. Now, when he had no idea where his lines were or his men either, traveling by horseback in broad daylight and in unfamiliar territory might be taunting fate.

Crawling up, hand over hand, using the stall boards for support, a sweating, shaky, Saunders made it to his feet. If anything, his knee was more swollen than the day before and so stiff from the night's inactivity, that he could not bend it at all. And topping things off, his stomach rumbled and growled from hunger. He eyed the horse with something akin to jealousy as the animal bent its head and took in another mouthful of hay, chewing contentedly, and he silently berated himself for leaving his knapsack behind in that bombed out town; in it were several days' rations. _If I could walk, I could check out the farmhouse. There might be something to eat in there_, he thought. But there was no use torturing himself over something that was well beyond his current capabilities.

Suddenly, Saunders remembered. Reaching inside his jacket, he felt around for what he hoped was there, in his left chest pocket. His fingers touched the outline of half a chocolate bar. He sighed in relief. At least it was something to take the edge off. Unwrapping the partially melted candy, he took a tiny bite, savoring the flavor as it dissolved on his tongue. He followed the chocolate with several long sips from his canteen. He hadn't seen any water around last night, not that he could see anything much anyway in the dark, and he figured the horse had to be thirsty, especially after consuming so much dry fodder. Eyeing his helmet on the ground where he'd inconveniently left it, Saunders poured a bit of canteen water into his cupped hand and held it out to the horse. This time, the thirsty animal needed no prompting to suck up the meager amount. Four times Saunders filled his hand and four times the horse emptied it. "That's about all I can spare for now, boy," he said.

Saunders gimped over to the window and peeked out. Daylight revealed a farmstead even more dilapidated and depressing than the sergeant could've imagined. The house was a shell, like a movie set where only the outer walls are constructed to give the impression of a real, lived-in, home. The barn, however, survived in relatively good shape and until only recently, probably housed not only the family livestock, but the family as well. Emptied tin cans littered the floor along with bits and scraps of blankets and clothing.

Just as the sergeant made the decision to lay low in the barn until nightfall, voices caused him to rethink his choice – the speakers were Germans.

Saunders dropped to the ground and for a moment, the lights went briefly dim, as his knee took the brunt of his action. As soon as his vision cleared, he grabbed his helmet, and the Thompson propped up against the stall and slung the weapon over his back. On his belly, Saunders crawled painfully along the floor and out the nearest door. He made it just in time. As he crawled out the back, a squad of krauts walked in through the front.

These krauts, with their loud voices and laughter, obviously did not fear discovery. That knowledge put a definite damper on Saunders' hopes that the Allied lines were close.

_There **is** that small chance they got a hold of a large bottle of cognac and are drunk to the gills_, Saunders thought. He watched from his hiding place outside the barn, concealed in the tall weeds and peering through a crack between two boards. The krauts' actions proved inconclusive.

A fat corporal wearing a filthy, too tight uniform blouse, and baggy-kneed trousers stuffed into badly scuffed boots, suddenly noticed the horse. Saunders felt like he was watching an old silent movie – the corporal appeared to be pantomiming his moves, almost as if he knew someone was watching, someone who did not speak German. Pointing to the horse, the kraut corporal beamed delightedly while rubbing the belly that threatened to burst the buttons from his ill-fitting uniform. His pudgy hands were all over Saunders' previous mount, like a butcher seeking out the best cuts of meat. His enthusiasm was contagious and soon the entire kraut squad was checking out the horse like he was prime rib on the hoof.

Saunders' stomach lurched. He rested his head down against his hand and actually wondered how the hell he might be able to prevent what he knew would happen, and soon, without his interference. Every bit of his experience told him even thinking about giving away his position to save a half-starved horse was asinine indeed – more like something a green recruit would do, not a seasoned combat veteran like Saunders. My God, it was something Billy Nelson would do! Saunders shuddered at the thought, but damn, he wished Nelson was here…Nelson and Caje and Littlejohn and Doc, and yes, even Kirby. Saunders knew he was in bad shape when he wished for Kirby to put in an appearance. _It's the pain and the hunger_, he rationalized.

The horse, whinnying in alarm, had Saunders bring the Tommy gun around. He pushed the first inch of the barrel through the crack between the boards, and as quietly as possible, he flipped the safety to 'off.' At that moment he didn't even wonder how he'd be able to hit the krauts without hitting the horse as well.

The fat kraut corporal had his bayonet out and was moving toward the horse, obviously meaning to cut its jugular. Two German soldiers hung from the animal's head, holding the frightened animal relatively immobile. From the sidelines, the rest of the kraut squad cheered on the proceedings. Saunders' finger tightened on the Thompson's trigger.

The sudden, high-pitched whine of incoming artillery had the krauts diving for cover. The horse, freed by its captors, bolted down the center aisle of the barn and out the back door as the building exploded, sending wooden debris of all shapes, sizes and destructive capability, in every direction. Remarkably, Saunders found he was uninjured, though he figured to be picking sawdust and hay out of his hair and uniform for days.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one's point of view, the kraut soldiers did not fare nearly as well. Several died outright, while several more, the fat corporal included, moaned and writhed in pain from their gruesome, and probably fatal, wounds. Wooden splinters propelled by great force could, and did, wreak unbelievable havoc on the human body.

Saunders brushed as much sawdust and dirt from his face as he could, his eyes watering mightily in an attempt to flush the foreign matter away. Finally, he attempted to sit up, doing so without difficulty. As he thought, he was uninjured, aside from his bad knee. Still, his predicament remained unchanged, at least unchanged for the better. He had lost his mode of transportation and was stuck, who knew where?

More voices and Saunders dropped back into his weedy cover, resisting the urge, the need, to sneeze as he inadvertently breathed in much of the dust he had just brushed off. He lay, silent, praying his cover would hold. It didn't.

"Well, I'll be damned! Sarge! Where you been? We been lookin' for you all night long!"

Hands patted Saunders heartily on the back and helped him to sit up. He smiled. He _was_ glad to see Kirby…and Caje, Doc, Littlejohn and Billy.

It was Caje who led the horse over, beaming at his discovery. "Since you can't walk, Sarge, I figured you might like ta ride! I found him just off the road, standin' there, like he was waitin' for somebody!"

Saunders, supported on one side by Doc and on the other by Billy Nelson, rubbed the horse affectionately on the soft, velvet nose. "This horse and me, well, we're old friends, Caje. He was waitin' for me, weren't you, boy?"

The horse bobbed his head, just once. The squad seemed amazed at the animal's acumen.

"He knows just what you're sayin', Sarge!" Billy scratched the horse behind one ear. "What's his name?"

Saunders didn't hesitate for a moment as his thoughts turned immediately to home and happier times. "Jasper, his name's Jasper," he said.

END


End file.
